As my body shuddered his cursing erupted from deep in his chest—low snarls that curled around me like something I’d won. I dragged him with me. His arm loosened to grip my breast as lash after lash of hot come filled me. His fingers crushed my flesh and I ground my hips and squeezed every muscle I had until he groaned like it had been pulled out of him against his will.
He might have started this.
I finished it.
“Suka,” he spat, and pushed me away.
I fell face down on the bed.
Laughter spilled out of me—genuine, helpless, the kind that comes from somewhere you didn’t know was still intact.
I was still laughing when the bedroom door slammed.
His come dripped out of me while he cursed his way down the hallway.
I pulled the covers over my shoulders and closed my eyes.
For the first time in weeks, I smiled.
??????
After a quick shower followed by a long soak in the tub, I began to feel human again. The aches and bruising were a map of the last few hours—every tender spot a reminder—and my insides still tingled in a way I refused to examine too closely.
I pulled the warm robe on and caught my reflection in the mirror.
The bruise on my neck was large and reddish-purple, the kind that would darken before it faded, sitting exactly where he had intended it to sit. I touched the tender skin and shook my head. A love bite. As though what had taken place this morning had anything to do with love.
The man had a talent for reframing possession as affection.
I wrapped a towel around my hair and moved toward the bedroom, slowing almost immediately when the dull throb of pain registered with every step.
A sharp knock at the double doors.
“Come in,” I said, and it came out sharper than intended.
One door opened and Spartak stepped inside, a tray balanced under his arm with the careful concentration of a man who had not been trained for this specific duty.
“The Pakhan said to bring your breakfast,” he said, and then his eyes found my neck before he could redirect them.
I tugged the robe higher and waved him toward the table.
“Thank you. Leave it there,” I said, and felt the heat climb my face regardless.
He set the tray down and left without another word, which I appreciated.
It wasn’t until I approached the table that I noticed the strip of painkillers beside the plate.
I stared at them for a moment.
It was almost enough to suggest the Pakhan had a heart somewhere beneath the machinery of him. I dismissed the thought before it finished forming. Men like Vadim Dragunov didn’t develop hearts. They developed strategies. The painkillers were logistics—keep the breeding stock functional, maintain the schedule.
That was all.
Monsters like him didn’t grow to love anything.
They only knew how to consume it.
I sat down and ate.
